You. The man in the coverall jacket with the hi-viz markers on it. I think you had a hat on as well, maybe a toque. It was hard to tell as I just caught a glimpse of you from the corner of my eye. But I heard you. Oh, did I hear you.
Sniffle, sniffle, cough, sniffle.
He was just a few feet behind me on Sunday night as I waited for my Boston Pizza takeout, which was my supper — and breakfast — for the regular all-nighter at the POST to put the pages together for the press that rolls on Monday. A Great White North. A pizza I've eaten since my early teens. My happiness over the back bacon and Canadian cheddar jack cheese taste overshadowed thoughts of contagion.
Hours later, I was done a few slices and finished a few pages of the weekly newspaper. I noticed a little 'tickle' in my throat. Just a little one. Easily pushed out of my mind with one more slice.
The paper was sent to press by 8am and I was heading home to sleep. Tired, but no ill-effects. Hours went by and later that night I was at the Bold Center for a hockey practice. Then home again where the kids ate the last of the pizza for a bedtime snack (I might've sneaked a piece too).
They went to bed. I started to cough.
By the next morning I was a drippin', droolin', sneezin' hackin', achin' mess. The headache was the topping on the crap-cake. Three days later, I've been sitting at home. It's the first time in 27 years of the job that an illness has kept me out of the office for three consecutive days. But with just three others in our building, I'd hate to spread this thing and shut down the whole operation.
Cover your mouth ... and answer your phone.
It's all your fault, non-descript man at Boston Pizza. If you had been as caring and thoughtful as I am about spreading your virus, I wouldn't be forced to be writing this little article with a foggy head, trying to find a lesson to be learned. But I shouldn't blame it all on him (even though I want to). He might've been craving his own pizza flavour, despite his crappy cold — or just wanted to get out of his house after three-plus days of isolation. Or perhaps he ended up at that pizza place late Sunday night for the same reason I did — leaving me to wonder how much better my week would have been if the first pizza place I phoned on Sunday night ... twice — half an hour before their advertised closing time — had answered their phone.
